


no one left behind

by eliotkeats



Category: Ladyhawke (1985)
Genre: F/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:11:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliotkeats/pseuds/eliotkeats
Summary: "Philippe, why do I get the sense that you’re more nervous than I about this wedding?"





	no one left behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keerawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/gifts).



I don’t get much sleep the week before Etienne and Isabeau are to be married.  I toss and turn at nights, the familiar rustling of the straw within the mattress keeping me awake instead of soothing me to sleep.  

I still pray to the Lord every night.  I tell him almost everything, except the things I think about Isabeau and Etienne late at night, when I’m drowsy enough that I can excuse my fantasies as dreams beyond my control.  It’s a loophole, to be sure, but I’ve lived my life in God’s loopholes, and haven’t been struck down by hellfire yet.    

Isabeau is fond of tales about courtly love, and although Etienne is a lord rather than a knight, I can tell from the wistfulness in her voice that she feels kinship with the ladies in those tales.  In the books she reads aloud by firelight, or repeats from memory, knights are allowed to love their lords’ ladies, passionately and chivalrously, and unfettered by the lady being wed to another.  There’s no stories about what happens when a knight feels the same towards both his lady and his lord.

 

***

 

“Isn’t this a task more suited to one of your ladies-in-waiting?” I huff, the metal handle of the water bucket digging into my palms, even though I’ve wrapped the hem of my tunic around it.  

“Never.  They talk too much, and then I feel bad for asking them to be quiet for a few minutes.  Now, is that water you’re carrying intended for me, or do you wish your mistress to turn into a block of ice?  Quickly, Philippe, I’m getting cold.”

Taking a deep breath, I turn and upend the bucket into the tub, trying very hard not to look at Isabeau naked.  Even so, I catch a glimpse of pale, strong shoulders, and upper arms wet and shiny.  The water is cloudy, milky-white from heat, and dried flowers and herbs float atop it, but even that doesn’t completely shade Isabeau’s fine form.  My face and ears grow hot.  

“Turn your back, little mouse,” Isabeau says, a smile evident in her voice.

I spin on my heel, narrowly avoiding stubbing my toe on the wooden slats of the tub and falling into the water.  

“Philippe.”

I keep my back to her.  “Yes, m’lady?”  

“Why are you so down?  

“Down, my lady?”

“You’ve hardly spoken to me all day.”

“You’ve been busy getting ready for your big day,” I say.  I hear water splash in the tub as she moves around and sits up.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to talk to you.”  

“Maybe after you’re dressed, m’lady,” I manage to say.  

There’s quiet.  She hums and there’s a muted watery sound, like she’s running her hand through the bathwater.  “All right.  Could you do me several favors, Philippe darling?”

“Of course.”  

“Could you find Etienne and tell him I’d like to see him in my room?”

“Sure.  What else?”

“Turn around and look at me.”

Reluctantly, I obey her.  

Isabeau has sat up and pulled her knees close to her chest.  There’s still a terrifying amount of skin exposed, but the water comes up almost to the hollow of her throat.  The ends of her hair straggle on her shoulders, wet and dark, and there’s petals tangled in the strands, crumbling in the hot water, and a leaf caught in the dip of her collarbone.  

She motions for me to move closer, so I do.  It feels like my legs are moving against their will, but I shuffle a couple steps forward and bend down.  She leans up the edge of the tub and kisses me.  Her lips are wet and warm and soft, but it feels too much like an apology for me to enjoy it.  

“Could you come back and brush my hair after you get Etienne?” she whispers.  She smells really good, and my hair is sticking to my forehead from the steam rising from the water, and if I didn’t know what a sweet lady Isabeau was, I’d swear she was making this hard for me on purpose.  

“Of course, my lady,” I say.  

She doesn’t say anything to me as I leave her bedroom, but when I throw a quick glance back over my shoulder, she’s watching me thoughtfully.  

 

***

 

Etienne is in the chapel.  Despite the ceremony due to be performed tomorrow, it’s almost bare; austere and stern, with a crucifix and a small altar.  The stone topping the altar is cracked, and Etienne refuses to let anyone replace it.  

The water droplets from Isabeau’s steaming bath have cooled on my face during the walk across the courtyard, and I wipe them away with my sleeve as I cross the threshold of the chapel.  Etienne’s back is to me, but as quiet as I’m being, he still twists around abruptly seconds after I enter.  

His face softens when he sees me and it makes my chest hurt, but I push that aside.  Can’t feel like that now, not in a chapel, not in front of a crucifix.  

“Isabeau sent me,” I say, walking up beside him.  “She requests your presence in her chambers, as soon as it pleases you.”

Etienne laughs.  “Tell her I’ll wash first, or else my smell won’t please _her_.”

I nod, smiling, and turn to leave.    

Etienne catches my arm as I try to turn away, rising as he does so.  His leather gloves rasp across my sleeve, and he smells like mud and horses.  Maybe Isabeau wouldn’t like the aroma, but I do.  “Tomorrow’s going to be a happy day, Philippe,” he says — because of course I must be reminded of it.  “Isabeau had a fancy new tunic made for you.  You’ll have to ask her about that.”  He tousles my hair fondly, his leather glove grazing the top of my ear, loud in the silence of the chapel.  “Maybe ask Cook to give you a trim.  I can hardly see your eyes.”

“It’s fine the way it is,” I say, twisting free of him and stepping out of reaching distance.  Usually I’d revel in the physical contact, and Etienne must notice something is wrong, because his eyes narrow as he watches me.  

(They’re both affectionate towards me, whether it’s Isabeau kissing me lightly on the corner of my mouth, or Etienne ruffling my hair or putting me in a gentle headlock, careful not to hurt me, but it’s always chaste, always firmly on this side of platonic, and sometimes it hurts more than it helps.)

“Did Isabeau say something to piss you off while I was gone?” Etienne asks, pulling off his riding gloves.

“I’m tired.  That’s all.”

Etienne raises an eyebrow.  “An old man already, eh?  Is the changing weather hurting your bones?”

He smiles at his jest, but I can tell he’s distracted at the thought of seeing Isabeau.  That’s good, I tell myself.  It means I don’t have to pretend to be amused.  

He claps me on the shoulder and shakes me a little, like a cat with a kitten.  “Tell her I’ll be along in a bit, Philippe.”

 

***

 

By the time I get back to Isabeau’s chambers, she’s dressed in a shift and cloak, and drying her hair.  She’s growing out her boyish cut, and it’s curling gently along her shoulders.  It’s graying already, but I don’t mention that to her.    The weighty horn comb is familiar in my grip, as is the way I hold her hair, careful not to pull, and start combing through the last few inches of it.   

“Are you nervous, my lady?” I ask, after several minutes of silence.  “About tomorrow, I mean.”

“Why would I be nervous?” she laughs.  “Once you’ve shared a curse, the thought of sharing a bed isn’t asmintimidating.”

I swallow hard, past the sudden knot in my throat.

She’s watching me in the mirror.  “Was that bad of me to say?”

I shrug, even though my shoulders feel weighted down, and pull the comb through a snarl.  “You’re the one marrying him, you can say what you want.”  Did I sound bitter?  I might have.  

She takes my hand and pulls me around to stand in front of her, and I feel like a child, about to be scolded.  

“Philippe.  Why do I get the sense that you’re more nervous than I about this wedding?  Etienne and I — neither of us not love cheaply.  If you think that you’re going to be cast-off, you do the both of us a great disservice.”  

The great wooden door creaks open and Etienne enters, his hair wet and face shiny from what must have been a hasty washing-up.  I attempt to pull my hand out of Isabeau’s grip, but she squeezes my palm tighter, not like she’s trying to trap me, but reassuringly.  

“Ignore him,” she says softly.  “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not a child,” I tell her, hating how petulant I sound.

Her brow furrows.  “I’m aware.”

The floorboards creak as Etienne come up behind me, still smelling of the stable and the outdoors and then stills, a silent presence at my back.  

“I’m not _your_ child either,” I blurt out.  Isabeau’s expression shifts minutely into something hurt.  Even though my heart is pounding wildly in my chest, I continue.  “I can’t — I don’t want to be that for you.  I know I lie, a _lot_ , but if I pretended I could do that for you it’d be a greater scam than Philippe the Mouse has ever pulled before.”

“What do _you_ want?”  Etienne asks slowly, after a pause.  

I turn to face him, Isabeau’s slender fingers still hooked around my own.  “I want — I.”  I can’t get the words out past the painful lump in my throat.  To say it could ruin _everything_.

Etienne glances past me at Isabeau and must see something to encourage him, because he exhales slowly, then puts a hand on my shoulder, and tilts my chin up with the other.  And then then there’s callused fingers cupping my face, thumbs sliding over my jawline, and Etienne is kissing me.  There are lips on my lips, and chapped from long rides in the harsh winter wind, and cracked because he smiles so much these days.

He kisses me so carefully, like he’s afraid I’ll hit him or curse at him.  Then he pulls back a few inches, and looks at me, shifting his hands from my face to my shoulders, thumbs resting against my collarbone.  “All right?”

I draw in a breath and let it out, and I’m still standing, I haven’t been struck by righteous lightning, or dragged down to hell.  When I frantically look behind me, Isabeau has risen and watching her betrothed (who has _just kissed me_ ) and I, with a twinkle in her eye and an expression like fond amusement.

Etienne is still waiting for an answer to his question, so I manage to choke out, “Yes,” and then, tentatively, my voice cracking on the word, “A-another?”  

He laughs and pulls me forward off-balance so that his lips press against my temple instead.  

“Be patient, Mouse,” he says lightly.  “We must let the lady of the house have her turn.”  


End file.
